


Twice Bitten

by pinksugartales



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bitter Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Possessive Behavior, Requited Unrequited Love, We're playing it fast and loose with canon darlings, Winter At Kaer Morhen, but make it sad and introspective, falling back in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26653411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinksugartales/pseuds/pinksugartales
Summary: Jaskier knew he could survive Geralt’s rejection. After all, Geralt was not his first Witcher. Not the first he’s ever met, not the first he’s traveled with, and definitely not the first to break his heart.[Or, five years after the Mountain, Jaskier reluctantly reunites with Geralt. With Nilfgaard pursuing all those in connection to the White Wolf and his Child Surprise, Jaskier returns to Kaer Morhen for the first time in over a century and a half. During his stay, he must reacquaint himself with the lost loves of his past and present.]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Jaskier | Dandelion/Vesemir
Comments: 33
Kudos: 249





	Twice Bitten

Geralt locates him in a tavern of little consequence.

There is no grand fanfare marking their reacquaintance. As their eyes meet across the room, time does not slow, Jaskier’s fingers do not slip from his lute strings, nor does his singing waver upon recognizing the Witcher that broke his heart.

Instead, the only thing that he can bring himself to ponder is, _how_? 

Jaskier assumed he’d done an impressive job in recreating his identity. It’s been years since the mountain and though his youthful countenance remains the same, the accoutrements have changed enough to disguise him from the public. His once short hair now fell in waves to the length of his chin, his colorful court clothing traded for somber silks and sturdy shoes.

He’d taken to rimming his eyes with kohl, blue made striking and giving him a hardened, sensuous edge - a far cry from the open joy that was _Jaskier_.

While the darker aesthetic was signature to Nightingale, the masses were ignorant to the fact it was first borne from neglect and sleepless nights of heartbreak. The kohl had been a rather pathetic attempt in hiding the shadows under his eyes and the hair a byproduct of months of indifference. Even his fashion was first a result of mourning love lost, only later adapted out of practicality.

Darker colors, it turned out, helped him stay out of trouble when traveling without a Witcher watching his back. Later, he'd realize the plain silks suited smaller income. Starting with a fresh repertoire and without twenty years of fame couldn't sustain his previous clothing allowance. Frequently discarding his colourful velvets due to the wear and tear of travel was no longer possible.

And so, he traded the ostentatious Jaskier for something simpler.

The new look still managed to captivate the masses though. He's an old hand at romanticizing a brooding stranger coming to town.

Jaskier feels somewhere halfway between identities, and he thinks it will take him another decade to be fully comfortable with the new name and personality. The acclimatization, the discomfort, was familiar. It had been so with Crimson, and Dandelion before that. And the other handful of people he’s been in his long life. But he has a particular fondness for Jaskier who is more true to himself than he's ever been, though Nightingale has been a refreshing change of pace.

Under his new disguise and name, Jaskier really believed he was able to unchain himself from Geralt. Singing for his supper was no longer bound to praising the man who held such disrespect for him. His ballads of Geralt’s exploits have long been traded for forlorn songs, jigs more cutting than upbeat, and rapturous overtures. 

Admittedly, there were songs in his repertoire that spoke of the White Wolf (if one listened closely enough) but they were less overt, less personal. Studies done with a detached eye. 

Eyes of liquid gold stare at him as he plucks the last notes of Her Sweet Kiss - his only exception. 

Jaskier wonders if this song is how Geralt managed to track him. The song had debuted under his new pseudonym, and it was ambiguous enough that no one would know it spoke of Geralt and his sorceress. Jaskier thought that even his companions from Oxenfurt wouldn’t have been able to suss out the true identity of its owner, should they hear it out in the world. Much too moody for his usual style.

But if Geralt had found him through this song… Wistful thinking, Jaskier - Nightingale - knows.

Jaskier wonders how it could be anything else though. After all, destiny would never be so kind (or cruel) to him, and he doubted She would throw Geralt back in his tracks. He’s learned long ago that he isn’t meant to be part of any grand history.

Julian was a traveler through time but it seems he is meant to travel alone.

The song gives way to applause, and in the crowd he can see a number of women with weepy eyes looking at him like he hangs the stars. Jaskier realizes he will, unfortunately, have to let the opportunity of making their acquaintance pass him by.

The Witcher was stalking towards him like a hunter to his prey and its doubtful he can make a graceful retreat.

“Jaskier...” Geralt starts, voice stern but more vulnerable than Jaskier has ever heard it. 

He can feel the eyes of the audience on him, and it won’t be long before they put two and two together, and so he silences the Witcher with a cutting look.

His old muse has the audacity to look taken aback at his reaction.

“I’m afraid you have mistaken me for another, good ser. I’m but the minstrel, Nightingale,” he sighs, voice cold and detached.

The townspeople murmur around them. Jaskier doesn’t have a Witcher’s sense of hearing, but he can infer it’s gossip, wondering just why the White Wolf is interrupting their evening’s entertainment.

Geralt’s eyes lower at his detached tone, submissive (surprising) and he clears his throat.

“A moment of your time then, Nightingale.”

Jaskier breathes in deep, trying to calm his beating heart.

Though his face is schooled to nonchalance, he’s sure Geralt can smell his panic, his anger, his disdain, even under the aroma of stale ale and vomit permeating the tavern.

“Very well.”

He gives a brisk nod to the barkeep who looks less than pleased that this evening’s entertainment has been cut short. He nevertheless lets Jaskier gather his payment and travel pack undisturbed, unwilling to cause a ruckus now that there’s a Witcher in their midst.

Jaskier was planning to stay the night in a warm bed with an even warmer partner to save coin, but once more Geralt of Rivia has thrown him off course. Fine. He might as well make the man pay for it by bunking together, awkwardness be damned.

And if the time between today and tomorrow offers a chance for Geralt to apologize… Well.

“Do you have a room at the inn?” Jaskier asks, carefully storing away his lute. It’s of fine craftsmanship, but it’s not of elven make. He has to be more delicate with it than he had ever been with Filavanderal’s boon, now retired to his rooms in Oxenfurt.

The man mumbles an affirmative and they make their way down the dark streets towards the inn. The gulf between them is wide despite how Geralt walks close enough for Jaskier to smell him - horse and heat, leather and musk.

“I, uhm-” Geralt struggles with his words, as he always does. But the time apart from each other leaves Jaskier less enamored of the man’s taciturn nature and more annoyed. “I found my Child Surprise. We found each other. She’s there.”

Jaskier gives an almost imperceptible nod at the news, eyes trained on the warm lights cast from the inn. He’s careful not to trip on root or rock in the dark. Call it petty, but he wants to keep up his poise in front of Geralt for as long as possible.

“I’m glad you found each other,” he answers. Because he is. Jaskier has been staying as far north as possible since Cintra fell months ago, but whispers of the missing princess still made its way to his ears through the gossip of merchants and refugees alike. 

It’s good to know that, for once, Geralt is taking some responsibility.

Geralt leads him into the room where a little girl sleeps, still wrapped up in a tattered cloak and uncaring of how it dirties the bed.

Even with her eyes closed and hair mussed Jaskier can see how she was very much a copy of her late mother. It’s been years since he’s seen Cirilla. The last he’s seen of her was probably when she was around seven or eight, on a rare occasion when Calanthe would permit his presence in court.

He never could imagine the energetic child that looked upon him with bright eyes could look so haggard, so tense. It seems she’s ready to spring from her bed at a moment’s notice, cognizant of the danger she’s in even in when sleeping.

“Poor thing,” Jaskier whispers to himself. 

He can see a flash of guilt in Geralt’s eyes as he turns away from the bed, but Jaskier stops himself from comforting the man. That is not his purpose anymore. 

Once bitten, twice shy and all that.

Or, he supposes, twice bitten. 

Not that Geralt knew about his previous Witcher.

(Not that Geralt ever cared to learn.)

As Jaskier turns to sit on the rug by the hearth he asks, “Now, what did you need me here for, Geralt?”

Geralt, to his surprise, takes a seat beside him, angular profile pensive in the dancing firelight.

“Nilfgaard is looking for you.”

“ _Me?_ ”

Geralt gives him a grunt in response, looking just past his shoulder rather than in the eye. It annoys Jaskier more than it should, but he swallows back the resentment and instead focuses on this information.

He shouldn’t be surprised, really. Jaskier’s affiliation with the White Wolf is known as far across the land as his songs have traveled. No matter how they’ve lost touch over the years, the tale of a Witcher and his bard has been immortalized in song and memory. If Geralt had found his Child Surprise, it stands to reason he’s become a target.

Jaskier really had thought that under his new guise he’d be safe to blaze his own trail, independent of Witchers and sorceresses and their destiny. It seems the two decades he’s traded in with Geralt has come to collect. With interest.

Jaskier picks at the dirt under his fingernails, suddenly wishing for a bath.

“It’s my association with you that has them scrambling, I’m guessing? Looking for your Child Surprise?”

Geralt nods, eyes meeting his own for the briefest of moments, before flicking away. The guilt in his expression is most likely imperceptible to most, but Jaskier has spent a long time cataloguing the reactions of his muse.

“Tell me, are they looking for Jaskier? Or Nightingale?”

“Both. They know.”

Jaskier frowns at the headache of this situation. It’s not fair that he has to deal with this. When Geralt cast him aside, he should’ve been free of this mess. He’s paid enough of his time, his energy, his care, damn it.

While many a long-lived creation states time is of little consequence considering the grand scheme of their lives, Jaskier has never been able to relate. He feels each year keenly, each wonder discovered piquant, and each heart break fiercely.

Every moment lost is a moment lost, and spending over two decades at Geralt’s side without being respected, if not considered a friend - it hurts, no matter how many years he has behind or ahead of him.

“So, who was it?” Jaskier asks, trying to focus on the issue at hand. “The little bird that sang to the army?”

Jaskier is doubtful that a villager had deduced the ties between his stage names. Had to be someone from court, or within his trade.

“No one sold you out. It was a rumor,” Geralt corrects quietly.

“Rumors start from somewhere,” Jaskier huffs. “Go on, Witcher. I know you have more to say on the matter. You’re furrowing your brow the way you do when you’re trying to stop me from taking a swing at someone. So? Who is it? It’s someone I know personally. Don't don’t even try to hide it.”

Geralt grimaces, yellow eyes flitting away from him for a second. If emotion hadn’t been pounded out of him during the Trials and the Path, Jaskier is sure he would’ve actually fidgeted.

“From what I learned in Oxenfurt, it came from Valdo Marx.”

The anger rises in Jaskier with ferocity, but it’s a testament to his restraint that he only lets out an annoyed huff. If they had been alone, he would’ve raged at this information. As it stands, he has to be mindful that letting out his anger could disturb the still sleeping princess.

“Of course,” he ends up hissing quietly. “That fucker has to haunt me even now.”

“Jaskier-”

“So. This is how you found me. Valdo fucking Marx.”

Geralt grunts his assent.

Of course Fate decided to deliver Geralt back to him through the word of Valdo Marx. The tiny shred of hope that Geralt had found Jaskier through his music rots away. If an army hadn’t been searching for him, Jaskier would be on the road to Oxenfurt, night be damned, to drive a dagger into Valdo Marx’s throat.

How could Jaskier ever expect Geralt to find him through something so romantic?

The man hadn’t even tried to find him after their fight, if you can even call it that. It was moreso Jaskier being tossed away like last season's fashion.

Now, Geralt sits beside him out of obligation, his stupid code of honor and, most probably, guilt.

Jaskier tries to think of which court he could find refuge in but comes up blank. It’s been years since Jaskier the Bard performed in any of those places. He also knows that despite the number of impersonators Jaskier has had, the upper echelons of society judge h _im dead._

 _Don’t think even the Countess would be happy to see me_ , he thinks. _She’d kill me herself._

And while Nightingale may have some renown, it's among the smallfolk and the poor.

“I came to-”

“Yes, yes. You came to warn me,” Jaskier interrupts, staring into the fire and mind running through several schemes that could allow him to slip away from a goddamn army. “There has to be some hideyhole I can wiggle my way into. Someone that could squirrel me away - Oxenfurt is too obvious, considering Valdo was the leak… Maybe the Rosemary and Thyme.”

“You can’t hide away in a brothel,” Geralt growls, finally looking him in the eye.

“Whoreson Senior likes me enough, and there are worst ways to go.”

“This is serious, Jaskier.”

“Mhmm. Very serious,” he waves his hand in a flourish, as if to dispel Geralt’s glowering which only causes the Witcher to loom more menacingly.

“Who knows how long they’ll be looking for you? Just a fortnight ago, they caught another bard. One who’d been singing your songs, making coin off your identity. They tortured him for information. Cut off his fingers.”

Jaskier ignores the ice that runs down his back at this information.

Maybe he isn’t so sour that Geralt had found him now. Surviving so long while being long-lived necessitated some modicum of self-preservation, despite a few kicks to his dignity.

“Well, if he was impersonating me he probably didn’t deserve them.”

“Jaskier. ”

“Melitele be damned,” Jaskier curses, flopping onto his back. “Nightingale deserved a longer run.”

Once an appropriate amount of time has passed, he could always come back to it. He’ll miss the comfort of the disguise though. It was nice to be someone so different, for a while.

“You’re not safe here,” Geralt continues.

“You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

He could return home. It would be safe, so long as Nilgaard wouldn’t uncover the relation between him and his ancestral home. Still, he doesn’t like the idea that he could bring attention to his family. Their magic has been waning for centuries, and he doesn’t want to test it.

“I’m bringing you to Kaer Morhen,” the Witcher grumbles instead, handing him an out to his predicament.

It’s not a request.

The particular tone Geralt is using is only comes out when he’s dead set on getting his way. No amount of needling from Jaskier can make him budge.

“The safest place for you is beside me,” the Witcher continues.

Jaskier quirks a brow at the strength of his conviction.

“Oh?” he asks, intrigued at this turn of events.

He sits up for a better look at the Witcher's face. Jaskier takes some glee in Geralt’s pinched expression.

If he thinks about it, this time it’s Geralt shoveling Jaskier’s shit and Jaskier would be lying if he doesn't feel some satisfaction in this reversal.

“Go on,” he says, hiding his amusement behind an indifferent tone. If Geralt is going to ask him to come home with him, then Jaskier wants to make him _squirm_.

“I… Jaskier, I beg of you.”

Jaskier holds his breath, the air in the room suddenly thin. Geralt may plead if forced, but he's never been on the receiving end of it. The Witcher looks so pained that even in his bitterness Jaskier can’t take complete pleasure in the contrition.

He waits and, to his mortification, feels some of that old affection in the pit of his belly.

“I want you to be safe. It might not make you happy to be walk beside me as you once did, and you may not trust me as you once did, but I swear to keep you from harm. I want you safe.”

Jaskier bites his cheek.

"I want to _know_ that you are safe. Please, Jaskier."

It’s not the apology he wanted, but it’s also a reminder of Geralt’s care, why he fell in love with Geralt only a day into their acquaintance. The Witcher looks more tired than he did on their travels, even more than he did on that Mountain, and a part of himself that he thought hidden away makes itself known.

The flames of the hearth dance, licking stone and reaching into the darkness of the chimney. He thinks of crumbled towers, the smell of burnt parchment, tears at his neck, another Wolf in his arms.

He looks to Geralt and, for a moment, sees double.

Jaskier knows what waits for him at Kaer Morhen. Even with Geralt in front of him, he can’t help but wonder…

“Only since you asked so nicely,” he concedes.

Jaskier misses the relief on Geralt’s face as he turns back to the fire, thinking of days long past.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, appreciate you tossing a kudos/comment/feedback to your writer. Take care until next time! :)


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